الفصل الفصل 3 · Chapter III

Wolf Larsen ceased swearing as suddenly as he had begun. He relighted

his cigar and glanced around. His eyes chanced upon the cook.

“Well, Cooky?” he began, with a suaveness that was cold and of the temper

of steel.

“Yes, sir,” the cook eagerly interpolated, with appeasing and apologetic

servility.

“Don’t you think you’ve stretched that neck of yours just about enough?

It’s unhealthy, you know. The mate’s gone, so I can’t afford to lose you

too. You must be very, very careful of your health, Cooky. Understand?”

His last word, in striking contrast with the smoothness of his previous

utterance, snapped like the lash of a whip. The cook quailed under it.

“Yes, sir,” was the meek reply, as the offending head disappeared into

the galley.

At this sweeping rebuke, which the cook had only pointed, the rest of the

crew became uninterested and fell to work at one task or another. A

number of men, however, who were lounging about a companion-way between

the galley and hatch, and who did not seem to be sailors, continued

talking in low tones with one another. These, I afterward learned, were

the hunters, the men who shot the seals, and a very superior breed to

common sailor-folk.

“Johansen!” Wolf Larsen called out. A sailor stepped forward obediently.

“Get your palm and needle and sew the beggar up. You’ll find some old

canvas in the sail-locker. Make it do.”

“What’ll I put on his feet, sir?” the man asked, after the customary “Ay,

ay, sir.”

“We’ll see to that,” Wolf Larsen answered, and elevated his voice in a

call of “Cooky!”

Thomas Mugridge popped out of his galley like a jack-in-the-box.

“Go below and fill a sack with coal.”

“Any of you fellows got a Bible or Prayer-book?” was the captain’s next

demand, this time of the hunters lounging about the companion-way.

They shook their heads, and some one made a jocular remark which I did

not catch, but which raised a general laugh.

Wolf Larsen made the same demand of the sailors. Bibles and Prayer-books

seemed scarce articles, but one of the men volunteered to pursue the

quest amongst the watch below, returning in a minute with the information

that there was none.

The captain shrugged his shoulders. “Then we’ll drop him over without

any palavering, unless our clerical-looking castaway has the burial

service at sea by heart.”

By this time he had swung fully around and was facing me. “You’re a

preacher, aren’t you?” he asked.

The hunters,—there were six of them,—to a man, turned and regarded me. I

was painfully aware of my likeness to a scarecrow. A laugh went up at my

appearance,—a laugh that was not lessened or softened by the dead man

stretched and grinning on the deck before us; a laugh that was as rough

and harsh and frank as the sea itself; that arose out of coarse feelings

and blunted sensibilities, from natures that knew neither courtesy nor

gentleness.

Wolf Larsen did not laugh, though his grey eyes lighted with a slight

glint of amusement; and in that moment, having stepped forward quite

close to him, I received my first impression of the man himself, of the

man as apart from his body, and from the torrent of blasphemy I had heard

him spew forth. The face, with large features and strong lines, of the

square order, yet well filled out, was apparently massive at first sight;

but again, as with the body, the massiveness seemed to vanish, and a

conviction to grow of a tremendous and excessive mental or spiritual

strength that lay behind, sleeping in the deeps of his being. The jaw,

the chin, the brow rising to a goodly height and swelling heavily above

the eyes,—these, while strong in themselves, unusually strong, seemed to

speak an immense vigour or virility of spirit that lay behind and beyond

and out of sight. There was no sounding such a spirit, no measuring, no

determining of metes and bounds, nor neatly classifying in some

pigeon-hole with others of similar type.

The eyes—and it was my destiny to know them well—were large and handsome,

wide apart as the true artist’s are wide, sheltering under a heavy brow

and arched over by thick black eyebrows. The eyes themselves were of

that baffling protean grey which is never twice the same; which runs

through many shades and colourings like intershot silk in sunshine; which

is grey, dark and light, and greenish-grey, and sometimes of the clear

azure of the deep sea. They were eyes that masked the soul with a

thousand guises, and that sometimes opened, at rare moments, and allowed

it to rush up as though it were about to fare forth nakedly into the

world on some wonderful adventure,—eyes that could brood with the

hopeless sombreness of leaden skies; that could snap and crackle points

of fire like those which sparkle from a whirling sword; that could grow

chill as an arctic landscape, and yet again, that could warm and soften

and be all a-dance with love-lights, intense and masculine, luring and

compelling, which at the same time fascinate and dominate women till they

surrender in a gladness of joy and of relief and sacrifice.

But to return. I told him that, unhappily for the burial service, I was

not a preacher, when he sharply demanded:

“What do you do for a living?”

I confess I had never had such a question asked me before, nor had I ever

canvassed it. I was quite taken aback, and before I could find myself

had sillily stammered, “I—I am a gentleman.”

His lip curled in a swift sneer.

“I have worked, I do work,” I cried impetuously, as though he were my

judge and I required vindication, and at the same time very much aware of

my arrant idiocy in discussing the subject at all.

“For your living?”

There was something so imperative and masterful about him that I was

quite beside myself—“rattled,” as Furuseth would have termed it, like a

quaking child before a stern school-master.

“Who feeds you?” was his next question.

“I have an income,” I answered stoutly, and could have bitten my tongue

the next instant. “All of which, you will pardon my observing, has

nothing whatsoever to do with what I wish to see you about.”

But he disregarded my protest.

“Who earned it? Eh? I thought so. Your father. You stand on dead

men’s legs. You’ve never had any of your own. You couldn’t walk alone

between two sunrises and hustle the meat for your belly for three meals.

Let me see your hand.”

His tremendous, dormant strength must have stirred, swiftly and

accurately, or I must have slept a moment, for before I knew it he had

stepped two paces forward, gripped my right hand in his, and held it up

for inspection. I tried to withdraw it, but his fingers tightened,

without visible effort, till I thought mine would be crushed. It is hard

to maintain one’s dignity under such circumstances. I could not squirm

or struggle like a schoolboy. Nor could I attack such a creature who had

but to twist my arm to break it. Nothing remained but to stand still and

accept the indignity. I had time to notice that the pockets of the dead

man had been emptied on the deck, and that his body and his grin had been

wrapped from view in canvas, the folds of which the sailor, Johansen, was

sewing together with coarse white twine, shoving the needle through with

a leather contrivance fitted on the palm of his hand.

Wolf Larsen dropped my hand with a flirt of disdain.

“Dead men’s hands have kept it soft. Good for little else than

dish-washing and scullion work.”

“I wish to be put ashore,” I said firmly, for I now had myself in

control. “I shall pay you whatever you judge your delay and trouble to

be worth.”

He looked at me curiously. Mockery shone in his eyes.

“I have a counter proposition to make, and for the good of your soul. My

mate’s gone, and there’ll be a lot of promotion. A sailor comes aft to

take mate’s place, cabin-boy goes for’ard to take sailor’s place, and you

take the cabin-boy’s place, sign the articles for the cruise, twenty

dollars per month and found. Now what do you say? And mind you, it’s

for your own soul’s sake. It will be the making of you. You might learn

in time to stand on your own legs, and perhaps to toddle along a bit.”

But I took no notice. The sails of the vessel I had seen off to the

south-west had grown larger and plainer. They were of the same

schooner-rig as the _Ghost_, though the hull itself, I could see, was

smaller. She was a pretty sight, leaping and flying toward us, and

evidently bound to pass at close range. The wind had been momentarily

increasing, and the sun, after a few angry gleams, had disappeared. The

sea had turned a dull leaden grey and grown rougher, and was now tossing

foaming whitecaps to the sky. We were travelling faster, and heeled

farther over. Once, in a gust, the rail dipped under the sea, and the

decks on that side were for the moment awash with water that made a

couple of the hunters hastily lift their feet.

“That vessel will soon be passing us,” I said, after a moment’s pause.

“As she is going in the opposite direction, she is very probably bound

for San Francisco.”

“Very probably,” was Wolf Larsen’s answer, as he turned partly away from

me and cried out, “Cooky! Oh, Cooky!”

The Cockney popped out of the galley.

“Where’s that boy? Tell him I want him.”

“Yes, sir;” and Thomas Mugridge fled swiftly aft and disappeared down

another companion-way near the wheel. A moment later he emerged, a

heavy-set young fellow of eighteen or nineteen, with a glowering,

villainous countenance, trailing at his heels.

“’Ere ’e is, sir,” the cook said.

But Wolf Larsen ignored that worthy, turning at once to the cabin-boy.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“George Leach, sir,” came the sullen answer, and the boy’s bearing showed

clearly that he divined the reason for which he had been summoned.

“Not an Irish name,” the captain snapped sharply. “O’Toole or McCarthy

would suit your mug a damn sight better. Unless, very likely, there’s an

Irishman in your mother’s woodpile.”

I saw the young fellow’s hands clench at the insult, and the blood crawl

scarlet up his neck.

“But let that go,” Wolf Larsen continued. “You may have very good

reasons for forgetting your name, and I’ll like you none the worse for it

as long as you toe the mark. Telegraph Hill, of course, is your port of

entry. It sticks out all over your mug. Tough as they make them and

twice as nasty. I know the kind. Well, you can make up your mind to

have it taken out of you on this craft. Understand? Who shipped you,

anyway?”

“McCready and Swanson.”

“Sir!” Wolf Larsen thundered.

“McCready and Swanson, sir,” the boy corrected, his eyes burning with a

bitter light.

“Who got the advance money?”

“They did, sir.”

“I thought as much. And damned glad you were to let them have it.

Couldn’t make yourself scarce too quick, with several gentlemen you may

have heard of looking for you.”

The boy metamorphosed into a savage on the instant. His body bunched

together as though for a spring, and his face became as an infuriated

beast’s as he snarled, “It’s a—”

“A what?” Wolf Larsen asked, a peculiar softness in his voice, as though

he were overwhelmingly curious to hear the unspoken word.

The boy hesitated, then mastered his temper. “Nothin’, sir. I take it

back.”

“And you have shown me I was right.” This with a gratified smile. “How

old are you?”

“Just turned sixteen, sir.”

“A lie. You’ll never see eighteen again. Big for your age at that, with

muscles like a horse. Pack up your kit and go for’ard into the fo’c’sle.

You’re a boat-puller now. You’re promoted; see?”

Without waiting for the boy’s acceptance, the captain turned to the

sailor who had just finished the gruesome task of sewing up the corpse.

“Johansen, do you know anything about navigation?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, never mind; you’re mate just the same. Get your traps aft into

the mate’s berth.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” was the cheery response, as Johansen started forward.

In the meantime the erstwhile cabin-boy had not moved. “What are you

waiting for?” Wolf Larsen demanded.

“I didn’t sign for boat-puller, sir,” was the reply. “I signed for

cabin-boy. An’ I don’t want no boat-pullin’ in mine.”

“Pack up and go for’ard.”

This time Wolf Larsen’s command was thrillingly imperative. The boy

glowered sullenly, but refused to move.

Then came another stirring of Wolf Larsen’s tremendous strength. It was

utterly unexpected, and it was over and done with between the ticks of

two seconds. He had sprung fully six feet across the deck and driven his

fist into the other’s stomach. At the same moment, as though I had been

struck myself, I felt a sickening shock in the pit of my stomach. I

instance this to show the sensitiveness of my nervous organization at the

time, and how unused I was to spectacles of brutality. The cabin-boy—and

he weighed one hundred and sixty-five at the very least—crumpled up. His

body wrapped limply about the fist like a wet rag about a stick. He

lifted into the air, described a short curve, and struck the deck

alongside the corpse on his head and shoulders, where he lay and writhed

about in agony.

“Well?” Larsen asked of me. “Have you made up your mind?”

I had glanced occasionally at the approaching schooner, and it was now

almost abreast of us and not more than a couple of hundred yards away.

It was a very trim and neat little craft. I could see a large, black

number on one of its sails, and I had seen pictures of pilot-boats.

“What vessel is that?” I asked.

“The pilot-boat _Lady Mine_,” Wolf Larsen answered grimly. “Got rid of

her pilots and running into San Francisco. She’ll be there in five or

six hours with this wind.”

“Will you please signal it, then, so that I may be put ashore.”

“Sorry, but I’ve lost the signal book overboard,” he remarked, and the

group of hunters grinned.

I debated a moment, looking him squarely in the eyes. I had seen the

frightful treatment of the cabin-boy, and knew that I should very

probably receive the same, if not worse. As I say, I debated with

myself, and then I did what I consider the bravest act of my life. I ran

to the side, waving my arms and shouting:

“_Lady Mine_ ahoy! Take me ashore! A thousand dollars if you take me

ashore!”

I waited, watching two men who stood by the wheel, one of them steering.

The other was lifting a megaphone to his lips. I did not turn my head,

though I expected every moment a killing blow from the human brute behind

me. At last, after what seemed centuries, unable longer to stand the

strain, I looked around. He had not moved. He was standing in the same

position, swaying easily to the roll of the ship and lighting a fresh

cigar.

“What is the matter? Anything wrong?”

This was the cry from the _Lady Mine_.

“Yes!” I shouted, at the top of my lungs. “Life or death! One thousand

dollars if you take me ashore!”

“Too much ’Frisco tanglefoot for the health of my crew!” Wolf Larsen

shouted after. “This one”—indicating me with his thumb—“fancies

sea-serpents and monkeys just now!”

The man on the _Lady Mine_ laughed back through the megaphone. The

pilot-boat plunged past.

“Give him hell for me!” came a final cry, and the two men waved their

arms in farewell.

I leaned despairingly over the rail, watching the trim little schooner

swiftly increasing the bleak sweep of ocean between us. And she would

probably be in San Francisco in five or six hours! My head seemed

bursting. There was an ache in my throat as though my heart were up in

it. A curling wave struck the side and splashed salt spray on my lips.

The wind puffed strongly, and the _Ghost_ heeled far over, burying her

lee rail. I could hear the water rushing down upon the deck.

When I turned around, a moment later, I saw the cabin-boy staggering to

his feet. His face was ghastly white, twitching with suppressed pain.

He looked very sick.

“Well, Leach, are you going for’ard?” Wolf Larsen asked.

“Yes, sir,” came the answer of a spirit cowed.

“And you?” I was asked.

“I’ll give you a thousand—” I began, but was interrupted.

“Stow that! Are you going to take up your duties as cabin-boy? Or do I

have to take you in hand?”

What was I to do? To be brutally beaten, to be killed perhaps, would not

help my case. I looked steadily into the cruel grey eyes. They might

have been granite for all the light and warmth of a human soul they

contained. One may see the soul stir in some men’s eyes, but his were

bleak, and cold, and grey as the sea itself.

“Well?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Say ‘yes, sir.’”

“Yes, sir,” I corrected.

“What is your name?”

“Van Weyden, sir.”

“First name?”

“Humphrey, sir; Humphrey Van Weyden.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-five, sir.”

“That’ll do. Go to the cook and learn your duties.”

And thus it was that I passed into a state of involuntary servitude to

Wolf Larsen. He was stronger than I, that was all. But it was very

unreal at the time. It is no less unreal now that I look back upon it.

It will always be to me a monstrous, inconceivable thing, a horrible

nightmare.

“Hold on, don’t go yet.”

I stopped obediently in my walk toward the galley.

“Johansen, call all hands. Now that we’ve everything cleaned up, we’ll

have the funeral and get the decks cleared of useless lumber.”

While Johansen was summoning the watch below, a couple of sailors, under

the captain’s direction, laid the canvas-swathed corpse upon a

hatch-cover. On either side the deck, against the rail and bottoms up,

were lashed a number of small boats. Several men picked up the

hatch-cover with its ghastly freight, carried it to the lee side, and

rested it on the boats, the feet pointing overboard. To the feet was

attached the sack of coal which the cook had fetched.

I had always conceived a burial at sea to be a very solemn and

awe-inspiring event, but I was quickly disillusioned, by this burial at

any rate. One of the hunters, a little dark-eyed man whom his mates

called “Smoke,” was telling stories, liberally intersprinkled with oaths

and obscenities; and every minute or so the group of hunters gave mouth

to a laughter that sounded to me like a wolf-chorus or the barking of

hell-hounds. The sailors trooped noisily aft, some of the watch below

rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and talked in low tones together.

There was an ominous and worried expression on their faces. It was

evident that they did not like the outlook of a voyage under such a

captain and begun so inauspiciously. From time to time they stole

glances at Wolf Larsen, and I could see that they were apprehensive of

the man.

He stepped up to the hatch-cover, and all caps came off. I ran my eyes

over them—twenty men all told; twenty-two including the man at the wheel

and myself. I was pardonably curious in my survey, for it appeared my

fate to be pent up with them on this miniature floating world for I knew

not how many weeks or months. The sailors, in the main, were English and

Scandinavian, and their faces seemed of the heavy, stolid order. The

hunters, on the other hand, had stronger and more diversified faces, with

hard lines and the marks of the free play of passions. Strange to say,

and I noted it at once, Wolf Larsen’s features showed no such evil

stamp. There seemed nothing vicious in them. True, there were lines,

but they were the lines of decision and firmness. It seemed, rather, a

frank and open countenance, which frankness or openness was enhanced by

the fact that he was smooth-shaven. I could hardly believe—until the

next incident occurred—that it was the face of a man who could behave as

he had behaved to the cabin-boy.

At this moment, as he opened his mouth to speak, puff after puff struck

the schooner and pressed her side under. The wind shrieked a wild song

through the rigging. Some of the hunters glanced anxiously aloft. The

lee rail, where the dead man lay, was buried in the sea, and as the

schooner lifted and righted the water swept across the deck wetting us

above our shoe-tops. A shower of rain drove down upon us, each drop

stinging like a hailstone. As it passed, Wolf Larsen began to speak, the

bare-headed men swaying in unison, to the heave and lunge of the deck.

“I only remember one part of the service,” he said, “and that is, ‘And

the body shall be cast into the sea.’ So cast it in.”

He ceased speaking. The men holding the hatch-cover seemed perplexed,

puzzled no doubt by the briefness of the ceremony. He burst upon them in

a fury.

“Lift up that end there, damn you! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

They elevated the end of the hatch-cover with pitiful haste, and, like a

dog flung overside, the dead man slid feet first into the sea. The coal

at his feet dragged him down. He was gone.

“Johansen,” Wolf Larsen said briskly to the new mate, “keep all hands on

deck now they’re here. Get in the topsails and jibs and make a good job

of it. We’re in for a sou’-easter. Better reef the jib and mainsail

too, while you’re about it.”

In a moment the decks were in commotion, Johansen bellowing orders and

the men pulling or letting go ropes of various sorts—all naturally

confusing to a landsman such as myself. But it was the heartlessness of

it that especially struck me. The dead man was an episode that was past,

an incident that was dropped, in a canvas covering with a sack of coal,

while the ship sped along and her work went on. Nobody had been

affected. The hunters were laughing at a fresh story of Smoke’s; the men

pulling and hauling, and two of them climbing aloft; Wolf Larsen was

studying the clouding sky to windward; and the dead man, dying obscenely,

buried sordidly, and sinking down, down—

Then it was that the cruelty of the sea, its relentlessness and

awfulness, rushed upon me. Life had become cheap and tawdry, a beastly

and inarticulate thing, a soulless stirring of the ooze and slime. I

held on to the weather rail, close by the shrouds, and gazed out across

the desolate foaming waves to the low-lying fog-banks that hid San

Francisco and the California coast. Rain-squalls were driving in

between, and I could scarcely see the fog. And this strange vessel, with

its terrible men, pressed under by wind and sea and ever leaping up and

out, was heading away into the south-west, into the great and lonely

Pacific expanse.